


don't need wings to fly

by nip-the-cat (venom_for_free), zjofierose



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Ballet Dancer Yuri Plisetsky, Communication, Dancer Otabek Altin, First Dance, First Time, Getting Together, M/M, Motorcycles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:46:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28646244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venom_for_free/pseuds/nip-the-cat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: When stupid JJ breaks his ankle before their spring review, how is Yuri supposed to be able to prove himself? Enter a new partner...
Relationships: Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 12
Kudos: 83
Collections: Superfan





	don't need wings to fly

**Author's Note:**

> Had hoped to spend a little more time on this, but well _gestures at burning trashfire of a country_ I got a little distracted. I hope you all enjoy it anyway! 
> 
> Written as part of @venom_for_free's Superfan project - so much fun, and such a privilege to be involved!!

When it happens, Yuri’s high in the air, body balanced in a graceful arc. JJ’s palm firmly supports his sacrum while JJ’s other hand braces his shoulder, and then something just… gives. Suddenly he’s heading directly to the ground, and it’s only Victor’s swift interception that keeps Yuri from landing in a heap on the wooden studio floor.

Yuri’s turning around before his feet are even fully planted, spinning in fear and rage to see JJ crumple, his face white and his foot held at a funny angle to his leg. 

After that, everything happens very quickly. There’s a burst of noise: JJ shouting, the other dancers in the studio running, Lilia’s commanding voice rising above it all. JJ is lifted off the floor accompanied by grimaces of manful agony and suppressed shouts of pain, then ushered to Lilia’s office, strong arms slung over Victor and Chris’ shoulders. 

Yuri is left alone in the studio, standing in the middle of the floor and watching his future in flames before him.

\--

The rest of the day passes in a fog, Yuri marking the steps of his choreography when he can, accepting stand-in help from Chris when he’s not busy working on his own contemporary piece with Phichit and Seung-gil. But it’s not the same, not even close. Yuri is meant to be lifted, meant to fly - dancing a duet on your own is ridiculous. Every motion he makes is designed to be answered, but the questions his gestures pose go unheard.

He grits his teeth and pushes through. He’s a professional; he will not be pitied.

\--

When they gather in Lilia’s office at the end of the day, there’s a somber tone in the air and Yuri yanks fitfully at the ends of his hair in agitation. He looks over and sees JJ's swollen ankle propped on the chair next to him, and it serves as a stark reminder that it could be the end. 

_ Fuck _ . So close to the finish line, so close to the spring exhibition that was meant to be their professional debut, their declaration to the world that they were the Okukawa-Baronovskaya’s up-and-comers. So  _ close _ , and Yuri’s idiot partner has to stumble and fall like a beginner. 

JJ is good.  _ Can _ be good if he focuses. Good enough for Yuri to be willing to work with him, at least on stage. But in private? That's an entirely different situation. Yuri has zero interest in making friends with the obnoxious asshole, can’t imagine a world in which he wants anything from him beyond a rather chilly working relationship. But that doesn't mean Yuri doesn’t  _ need _ him - a duet can’t be danced by itself. 

But JJ won’t be dancing on that ankle anytime soon, which is no doubt why they are here in Madame Baronovskay’s office in the first place - to talk it through. As if there's anything Lilia could say, as if there's anything she could do to fix a sprained leg and make it heal just through her will. Still - there's no desperation or frustration on her face, just the same austere discipline with which she always regards the world. 

Perhaps she has some other solution in mind. Yuri can’t imagine what it would be, though - he won't work around a cast, it wouldn’t be safe. That's not going to happen, he has no interest in being dropped on the floor again like he almost was this morning. He's about to tell her so when Lilia interrupts his train of thought. 

"You will get a new partner." 

Wait.  _ What _ ? No. JJ might be a goddamn idiot, but he's at least a capable dancer. Everyone else is probably worse. Yuri’s fingers begin to dance on his lap, foot bouncing. He didn't sign up for someone else, especially not this late in the game. 

"I don't want to." 

"You don't want to present your piece at the senior review? Well, in that case, I'm sure there's an option to give this opportunity to someone else." 

"That's not what I meant." And Lilia knows that. Just as Yuri knows she was baiting him, and that he stepped into the trap. 

"Ah. Then I assume you are ready to meet your potential new dance partner, Mister Plisetsky?" 

He wishes he could growl, but at his age, that would be considered childish and unprofessional. After the slip up just now, he'd like to avoid either. "Fine." 

It's not fine. But he doesn't have a lot of options right now. 

Lilia gestures imperiously at the door, which opens, admitting a small, dark-haired man in a motorcycle jacket. He looks like he’s running delivery for some local food place, but he nods respectfully at Lilia and fist-bumps JJ, who looks relieved. 

“Beka,” JJ grins, “I didn’t know you were in town!”

Yuri looks between them in confusion. JJ knows this guy?

“Mr. Altin, if you could have a seat, please?”

The stranger sits in the chair on the other side of the door, eyes fully on Lilia. Yuri’s not even sure the guy’s glanced at him yet, which is… which is embarrassing, really.

“Mr. Plisetsky,” Lilia’s voice is sharp, and Yuri snaps to attention. “I’d like you to meet your new dance partner, Mr. Otabek Altin. Mr. Altin, Mr. Plisetsky.”

The guy - Otabek Altin, apparently - nods once in Yuri’s direction, so he stiffly does the same. 

“We will begin tomorrow at 8 am. I expect you to be punctual.”

Yuri grits his teeth, but nods. “Are we finished?”

“You are dismissed,” Lilia agrees, raising an eyebrow at him, but he barely notices. He’s too busy booking it out the door. 

\--

The next morning dawns freezing and damp, and Yuri’s bus is late, meaning that he drags into the studio at 7:54 dripping slush and not warmed up. It’s unacceptable and he knows it, so he changes clothes as fast as humanly possible and flings himself into a series of jumping jacks to warm up his muscles as Otabek Altin stretches on the far side of the studio. Victor’s here, too, no doubt to help with their lift safety while they acclimate, but he just rolls his eyes at Yuri’s antics and launches into a sparkling series of pirouettes.

_ Show-off _ , Yuri thinks, and drops to the floor to roll through his splits

Lilia arrives as Yuri’s tying up his hair in a messy ponytail, and starts the record on the old turntable, turning without speaking to the mirror to guide them through a standard barre.

The motions are ingrained in Yuri as deeply as language, as thought, so it’s easy to let his mind wander as his arms trace arcs through the air, his toes pointing and dragging against the wooden floor. Otabek is in front of him, taller than Yuri but not by more than a few inches. He’s of smaller stature than JJ, but built just as solidly - if anything, he might be thicker through the hips and thighs than JJ, all compact muscular core where JJ is built more like a dorito - all shoulders with diminishing returns. 

Otabek’s form speaks entirely of strength. Yuri wouldn’t go so far as to call it stiff, but it’s not as fluid as Victor’s, or as elegant as Katsudon’s, nor as flexible as Yuri’s own. Still, there’s a regalness to it, an efficient refinement in the point of his foot and the reach of his arm. 

All too soon, though, the warm-ups are over, and Lilia joins them in the center.

“You had time to review the choreography?” she asks Otabek, and he nods. “Good. From the top.”

Yuri moves into the opening  _ arabesque _ , his position sure, his form impeccable. The music starts and he begins to flow, one foot after another, face turning to follow a gesture, every muscle moving in perfect harmony. Otabek follows, his steps echoing the shapes of Yuri’s own, the dynamic between their bodies ebbing and flowing with the melody that resonates through the room.

The first time that Yuri goes up for the lift, he is saved only by Victor’s careful spot. 

Lilia hums disapprovingly as Victor lowers Yuri to the ground, and Yuri can feel himself grinding his teeth. Otabek says nothing, merely repositions to try again. 

The second through fifth times go no better, and the only redeeming piece of this whole mess is that Otabek’s flatly stoic expression is beginning to betray the faintest hints of frustration.  _ Good _ , Yuri thinks, let him be frustrated. Let him understand what Yuri feels.

“Yura,” Victor tells him thoughtfully after attempt number six ends with Yuri once again hanging from Victor’s shoulders, “I think you’re overthinking this.”

Otabek nods, and Yuri wants desperately to punch something. “I agree. Maybe it’s because JJ is taller, but you’re jumping too much.” He frowns thoughtfully, dark brows drawing together like crows about his storm-cloud eyes. “It’s throwing the balance off before I can even get centered under you. Can we just-” he puts his hands on Yuri’s hips and Yuri wants to tear himself away.

He takes a deep breath instead, in through his nose, out through his mouth. He settles his hands on Otabek’s wrists where they rest just behind his pelvis. 

“Victor, will you count?” Otabek asks, and Victor hums in agreement. “Yuri, when Victor gets to three, I just want you to jump straight up. We need to calibrate.”

_ Calibrate _ , Yuri thinks, like they’re twelve-year-olds doing their first lifts. He’s  _ nineteen _ , he’s a  _ professional _ , but somehow all he can do with this new partner is jump up and down.

“Three,” Victor says,” and Yuri leaps. 

It’s not only because of Victor that they don’t land in a heap on the floor this time, Otabek has something to do with it too, but it does still end with Yuri off-balance and flailing, frustration rolling off of him in every direction.

“Maybe we should take five,” Victor suggests, and Yuri storms out the door to the studio, not even bothering to grab his sweatshirt.

\--

The afternoon, if possible, goes worse.

\--

Yuri never thought he’d miss JJ. But as the week wears on, as he and Otabek bang and stomp their way through a piece that Yuri had thought was in the bag, that he’s been practicing for months, he at least begins to miss the stability of their partnership.

Every practice leaves Yuri a wrung out, furious, mess. Every practice leaves Otabek with a sharper line to his mouth and cant to his chin. Every practice leaves the disapproving glare etched a little more deeply into Lilia’s forehead.

Yuri doesn’t know what he’s going to do.

\--

If he’s honest, it also doesn’t help his mood that he has to see Otabek in the studio mirrors all the time. 

Yuri doesn’t date. He doesn’t have the time or really the inclination - dating means making nice with strangers, which he’s not interested in, and it’s hard to work around his schedule anyway. The ostensible benefits aren’t worth the hassle in his opinion. He has Potya for company, his fellow Okukawa-Baronovskaya dancers for social interaction, and apps for when he wants to fuck.

That said, he’d have to not have eyes in his face to fail to notice that his new partner is fucking hot. 

Aside from being built like a bear, Otabek has thick, slightly wavy dark hair that always smells faintly of coconut. His skin is smooth and tan, his eyes are a deep steel grey with flecks of green around the iris. His eyebrows are straight, his eyelashes unfairly long, his mouth generous without being feminine. Yuri may not like to pursue relationships of basically any type, but he’d dare anyone to watch Otabek doing technically perfect fouettes in the center of the room, the sunlight gilding his sweat-covered skin with light, and not reconsider all of their previously existing policies vis-a-vis romance. 

He’d been doing an admirable job of dealing with it, if Yuri does say so himself, until Mila. 

Mila, as a modern dancer working with Christophe, Phichit, and Seung-gil under Minako-sensei, doesn’t cross paths with Yuri much. All for the best, in Yuri’s opinion - she’s beautiful and loud and relentless in her attempts to befriend everyone around her through sheer persistence. But, for some reason, the modern group ends up in the ballet studio on Friday of their second week - something about a broken pipe, Yuri tunes out the details.

Regardless, all eight of the ballet and modern groups are squeezed into one studio together to finish their afternoon rehearsals, and Yuri wants to pull out his hair. Victor and Yuuri have finished their run-throughs and are goofing around with Christophe, who is clearly just  _ done _ whether he’s finished or not. Seung-gil is doggedly repeating some weird modern jump over and over, scrutinizing it in the mirror and frowning, then doing it again. Phichit and Mila are over against the wall watching as Yuri and Otabek go through their lifts, marking the steps and working on the timing.

It still sucks. They’re still not gelling. And Yuri feels more embarrassed than he has in years about performing. He wants to run. He wants to scream. He wants to hide his face in Otabek’s broad chest until everything rights itself again. 

Instead, he goes through the choreography from the top.

He’s sliding down from a better, but still not  _ good _ , lift when he catches Mila’s eye in the mirror. She’s mid-rude-hand gesture as she chats with Phichit, the curve of Otabek’s rock-solid ass the clear target of their discussion. Yuri can feel the fury rising within him at the very idea that Mila would ever,  _ ever _ , get her presumptuous hands on his partner, when she catches him watching. 

Her blue eyes go wide, then narrow in speculation before she drags her eyes up and down Otabek’s oblivious frame, licks her lips, and winks. 

Yuri lands hard on Otabek’s foot. Otabek doesn’t even blink.

“Again,” Victor calls from the corner, and Yuri breathes out between his teeth, then assumes the starting position.

\--

The problem is that, while he’d managed to keep his recognition of Otabek’s attractiveness pretty abstract (his eyes are pretty, his muscles are large, he smells good), Mila’s comments spark something in his body that won’t go back to sleep. Suddenly he’s all too aware of Otabek’s hands on his hips, his inner thigh; of how he slides down the front of Otabek’s muscled chest as he descends from the lift where only Otabek’s sheer strength and a very precise sense of gravity are keeping him aloft.

This was  _ never _ a problem with JJ, Yuri thinks with tightly leashed fury, and grits his teeth as Otabek grips him by the hips for the millionth time.

\--

By the time the weekend comes around, Yuri is in desperate need of a way to blow off steam. Sitting in his apartment is not going to cut it, and neither is locking himself in a studio for two more days, tempting though it is. Even he’s not stupid enough to push himself hard enough he gets injured, not when JJ getting injured is what got him in this mess in the first place. 

It’s with this in mind that he scowls and accepts when Mila invites him out for the weekend to hang out “with everyone.” He folds his arms and nods, trying not to snarl at the faint surprise in her deep blue eyes at his evident agreement. 

“Great,” she says, “We’re meeting at the little amusement park by the water at two. We’ll see you there!”

“Great,” Yuri grunts, and leaves.

\--

He has all night to regret his decision, but when he wakes in the morning to sticky sheets and fading visions of dark eyes and smooth, tan skin, he throws himself in the shower and screams into the spray. He has to do this - has to go and get out of his own head for a few hours, even if that means enduring the company of others.

He pulls on his cheetah print leggings and a favorite too-large black t-shirt with a tiger’s head on the front. It’s Saturday, and Lilia’s dress code can go fuck itself. He grins at himself in the mirror and drags a comb through his hair, tying it back into a messy topknot and grabbing his denim jacket. He wants to wear his stompy boots, but he’s rehearsed too much this week and his feet are a mess, so he toes into a worn out pair of slip-ons instead. 

It’s nice enough out, so he decides to walk instead of take the bus. It’s several miles, but it gives him time to catch up on a couple of new albums he’s downloaded but not listened to. He gets to the park in plenty of time despite the walk, and lets himself be dragged along with Mila and Phichit’s high spirits from the popcorn to the cotton candy to the ring toss to the bumper cars.

It’s fun; he can admit it. He beats Mila at a shooting game and wins a medium-sized plush tiger, and he eats a corndog he’s sure to regret tomorrow. He gets stuck next to Phichit on the swinging boat ride and might have lost hearing in his left ear permanently from all the screaming, but still. It’s good to do something other than beat his head against the metaphorical wall for a bit.

__

They’re all in line for the Ferris Wheel when Otabek arrives, a noisy crowd of dancers milling about and making the line attendants scowl. 

“Hi, Beka!” Mila chirps, and Yuri turns maybe a little too fast to be cool, looking over his sunglasses at Otabek where he stands in his leather jacket and a faded t-shirt over jeans. He looks like he just walked out of a magazine ad selling expensive watches or maybe just high-end vintage motorcycles. 

“Hey,” Otabek greets, and smiles. “Ferris Wheel? Really?”

“ _ Hnh _ ,” Yuri snorts. “Shows what you know. It’s the best ride there is.”

“Oh really?” Otabek asks, raising an eyebrow. “You’re going to have to explain that one to me.”

“Oh, Otabek, come sit with me, I need a buddy!” Mila bubbles at him, but Otabek just shakes his head and steps nearer to Yuri. 

“Sorry, no can do. Yuri has something very important he needs to bring me up to speed on,” Otabek tells her, and Yuri can’t resist beaming with superiority. He shows the attendant his pass and climbs into the basket seat, waiting as the attendant takes Otabek’s ticket and ushers him in, closing the wide metal bar over their laps.

“Ferris wheels are the best,” Yuri says as the machine shudders and clanks to a start, their basket slowly beginning to rise, “because there are no expectations. You can ride it on your own, or with a friend, or-” he pauses, suddenly realizing the hole he’s backed himself into. “Or with a date,” he continues, carefully not looking at Otabek. “You can go up to watch the view, or you can have fun rocking your basket, or you can even fucking read a book if you want. It’s not going to go too fast or be too noisy, and no little kid’s going to yak on your shoes.”

“Very succinct,” Otabek nods thoughtfully. “I’m convinced. When’s the best time to ride one?”

Their basket climbs steadily if not smoothly, reaching the apex and beginning its downward slope. 

“When there’s fireworks,” Yuri answers, decisive. “You can sit at the top and watch them burst all across the city. It’s even better than watching them from a plane, because you’re not in a  _ fucking plane. _ ”

Otabek laughs, and their basket sweeps through the bottom, beginning its rising cycle to the top. “Have you always liked Ferris Wheels?”

“Yeah,” Yuri nods, settling his hands on the bar. “They were my favorite when I was little. My grandpa would bring me to the carnival, and it was one we could ride together - not too fast for him, but not too little-kiddy for me.”

The ride gives a shuddering lurch, and their basket swings precariously. Phichit gives a surprised shriek below them.

“Um,” Yuri says, looking over the edge. “We haven’t gone around enough times for them to be letting people off yet. But we can’t be…”

“We’re stuck!” Mila shouts, delight in her voice, and the rest of the passengers take up the clamour. 

“Well,” says Otabek, looking over at Yuri and smiling, “looks like you’re going to have plenty of time to expound your love of Ferris Wheels.”

Yuri just smirks. “Have you ever ridden a double?” he asks, and Otabek’s eyes go wide as he shakes his head. “Well,” Yuri says, “let me start there.”

__

“Come on,” Otabek says as they stumble out of the carriage an hour later. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Sounds good to me.” Yuuri shudders, letting Otabek pull him along by the hand. “I don’t think I want to get on any more rides for a while.” 

They don’t have to go far before Otabek comes to a stop next to a sleek black motorcycle. “Here,” he says, digging in a pannier and coming up with a helmet, which he tosses to Yuri. “Put this on.”

Yuri stares. “You ride a motorcycle?”

“Yes.” Otabek frowns. “We don’t have to take it if you’re not comfortable.”

“No, no.” Yuri shakes his head, pulling his hair tie out so he can shove the helmet on his head. “No, it’s just… that’s so  _ cool _ .”

“Oh.” Otabek’s mouth twitches in what might be a smile, and Yuri wants to slap himself in the face at what that small expression does to his insides. “Well, if you say so.”

“Shut up and get on the bike, Altin,” Yuri grumbles, and Otabek does so easily, balancing the weight of the machine between his legs as Yuri climbs on behind him.

“You can hang on to the handles on either side of the seat there if you want,” Otabek says over his shoulder, “but it might feel safer if you put your arms around me.”

Yuri’s glad that Otabek turns around before the flush moves from Yuri’s ears to his cheeks. He debates for a moment, but then the bike jumps as Otabek turns the engine over, and he wraps his arms around Otabek’s trim waist instinctively as they start to move. 

The feel of Otabek’s warm bulk under his hands is not new; a hundred dance rehearsals mean they know the shapes of each others’ bodies intimately by now. But there is newness in hanging on to him, in spreading his thighs around Otabek’s hips as he clings to his taut waist. It’s thrilling, and Yuri loses himself in the vibrations of the bike and the solid warmth of Otabek’s back pressed against his chest. 

The wind increases as they rise through the streets of the city, whipping past Yuri’s body and freezing his ears. Eventually they finish the climb and come to a stop, and Yuri looks around to see that they’ve arrived in a park he’s never seen before, high on the top off a hill. The views are spectacular, and he nearly stumbles dismounting, awestruck by the sprawl of the city in front of him. 

“Nice, isn’t it?   


“I’ve never been up here,” Yuri answers, still distracted by staring in every direction. He can see the water stretching out in the late afternoon sunlight, the birds wheeling above the cathedral in the distance. “It’s beautiful.”

Otabek leans his bike on its stand and comes up beside him, hands in his jacket pockets. “Yeah.” He smiles, and Yuri has to resist the urge to stare at him, instead. He’s never seen Otabek this relaxed, and it’s captivating. 

He shakes it off. “Come on,” he says, tugging at Otabek’s sleeve. “What else is up here? Is this a whole park?”

“Yeah.” Otabek takes him by the hand and leads him away from the edge of the hill, and Yuri’s brain may as well short-circuit when Otabek’s rough fingers slide between his own. Yuri trips over his feet, and Otabek steadies him, looking back with a smile. “Okay?” he asks, and it’s such a loaded question that Yuri can only nod back, squeezing Otabek’s hand and following as they head into the park. 

Yuri couldn’t tell you later what all they pass as they stroll along hand in hand. He thinks there’s an arboretum, and a petting zoo. Lots of trees, and several statues surrounded by decorative gardens of various kinds. His brain is like a skipping record, caught on the warmth of Otabek’s broad palm in his, the texture of Otabek’s fingers linked with his own. He has no idea what this means, whether this is just a friendly gesture or an overture of something more, but he can’t bring himself to care.

They slip onto a side path to avoid a gaggle of brightly colored senior ladies out for a late afternoon power-walk and emerge into a broad clearing with benches scattered around the perimeter and strings of glowing lights strung up in the surrounding trees. A small band is playing, the stand-up bass and piano providing background to the jazzy horn. 

Otabek turns, smiling, and bows, raising Yuri’s hand to his lips. Yuri feels himself go hot all over.

“May I have this dance?” Otabek asks, his handsome face warm in the golden light. 

Yuri nods, and takes Otabek’s other hand in his. “Only if I can have this lead,” he answers, and Otabek grins, setting his free hand on Yuri’s shoulder. 

“I’ll happily follow you,” he says, and Yuri dives into the music, his hand firm on Otabek’s back to guide. 

It’s- it’s  _ so easy _ . They move together like water, the push and pull of the footwork bringing them together and tugging them apart. The dust under their feet spins and whirls as their toes glide and step, pointing and stamping as they circle in time with the music. Maybe it’s the way that Yuri had his arms around Otabek as they rode, the way that they leaned into the turns as one body, instinctively moving with the same aim, but there’s a flow between them now like a river and it rolls Yuri away.

The band changes songs and they change steps, moving through a quick foxtrot into a sultry samba, and Otabek’s hands are on his hips like they have been a thousand times in the last few weeks, but there’s something revelatory in his touch, something burning in the back of his eyes that Yuri’s never seen before. The tune shifts again and Otabek takes the lead, guiding Yuri effortlessly through a high-speed polka that has them both laughing uproariously as they struggle to keep pace with the riotous horn. 

The trumpet player takes a break and the string bass sets the small crowd into a slow waltz, the piano playing gentle chords. Otabek moves them into a careful three-step, his arms cradling Yuri close. It feels like the world is moving under Yuri’s feet while Otabek holds him steady, an anchor while Yuri bobs at sea, and without thinking he lets his head fall to Otabek’s shoulder. It fits perfectly in the warm dip of Otabek’s clavicle. 

He feels held; supported in a way he’s not sure he ever has before. And maybe, he thinks with a sudden clarity, that’s been the trouble with their  _ pas de deux _ \- Yuri’s been so caught up in  _ making _ it work, the way he always had to with JJ, that he’s completely failed to notice that with Otabek, he doesn’t need to. 

The idea distracts him so much that he almost doesn’t notice that the song has ended and that he and Otabek are now standing chest to chest, breathing in and out in the freshly fallen quiet. He’s moving before he realizes it, and then his lips are pressed to Otabek’s, warm and soft and opening in quiet surprise as Yuri licks across the seam of Otabek’s mouth. 

Otabek pulls back after a long moment, and Yuri can’t tear his hands from where they’ve come to rest on Otabek’s shoulders. There’s no count, no music, no signal, nothing but a twinkle in Otabek’s eyes and suddenly Yuri is in the air, arching over Otabek’s steady grip. It’s perfectly executed, and as Otabek’s weight shifts under him, Yuri follows without thought, flowing from one hold to another fluidly. 

He laughs from sheer surprise and delight, he can’t help it, and Otabek changes his grip and pours Yuri down his body in a textbook dismount. His eyes are glittering in the swiftly-falling twilight, and Yuri wants him with his entire being. 

“Wanna get out of here?” He asks again, and Yuri just grins.

“Your place or mine?” he answers.

\--

The ride to Otabek’s place is shorter, and so it’s not long before Yuri’s plastering himself against Otabek’s back as Otabek fumbles his keys into the lock. It’s an unassuming apartment; clean, which Yuri appreciates, and empty, which Yuri appreciates even more as Otabek drags them from the entry to the bedroom, kicking off shoes and losing his jacket as he goes.

“Fuck,” Yuri growls as Otabek pulls off his shirt and wings it at the laundry basket in the corner. “ _ Fuck _ , I have wanted this for so long.”

“Yeah?” Otabek grins, smug, and Yuri sticks his tongue out. It’s an admittedly futile gesture when he can’t keep his hands from roaming the smooth, tan skin of Otabek’s well-developed pectorals, but it’s the thought that counts. “What else have you wanted?”

“Your hands on me,” Yuri bites out, pulling his own shirt over his head. Otabek obligingly settles his hands on the marble curve of Yuri’s waist, his thumbs fitting perfectly into the curl of Yuri’s hipbones. 

“My hands are on you all the time,” Otabek teases. “That’s all you wanted?”

Yuri rolls his eyes and winds a hand into the back of Otabek’s hair. “Let me rephrase,” he offers, gripping Otabek by the wrist and guiding his hand inside the back of Yuri’s leggings. “I want your hands on me  _ everywhere _ .”

“Ah,” Otabek answers, deftly peeling Yuri’s leggings from his body and pushing him gently backward onto the bed. “Well. I suppose there are a few places I don’t handle you in the studio.”

He steps back to shuck his own pants, coming back to stand at the edge of the bed and gaze down at Yuri where he’s spread eagled on the bed, naked and unashamed. “Yura,” he says softly, and Yuri feels the whole tone of the room change. “God, you’re beautiful. You know that?”

There’s a lump in Yuri’s throat that sticks, so he reaches a leg up in a high attitude and catches Otabek around the back of the neck with his heel. “Come down here and show me,” he says, and pulls.

Otabek comes gladly.

\--

The weekend passes in a haze of heat and skin. They spend nearly all of it in Otabek’s large bed, a luxury that Yuri’s never thought to indulge in before. But Otabek’s bed has clean sheets, and Otabek’s bed has some kind of fancy foam mattress like a cloud, and best of all, Otabek’s bed has Otabek in it, and Yuri would like to never leave. 

They make occasional forays out of the room for food, but they all end the same way: one of them catches the other in a lingering stare on the corner of a mouth or the dip of an arm, or a slightly-too-long touch to the dimples of the back or the nape of the neck strays into something more. And then Otabek is carrying Yuri back to his bed, his magnificent bed, and maybe he’s swallowing down Yuri’s cock until it hits the back of his throat, or maybe Yuri pins him and rolls their hips together, or maybe, once, they lie together entangled and kiss until sleep steals over them both. 

Saturday turns into Sunday which turns into dragging themselves into the shower and Otabek digging through his drawers for clothes that might fit Yuri’s more slender frame. Otabek makes rich, dark coffee and Yuri buries his face in his mug, half in love with the way the sleeves of Otabek’s shirt are just a little too long and cover his hands.

He climbs onto the bike behind Otabek and closes his eyes on the ride to the studio, focusing on the feeling of Otabek moving against him. 

Their first lift of the day is flawless. Victor wolf-whistles, Yuuri applauds, and Lilia looks neutral, which means she’s pleased. Yuri takes Otabek’s face in his hands and kisses him soundly.

\--

They kill it at the review. 

When it’s over, Yuri dips Otabek and kisses him onstage. The catcalls nearly drown out the applause.


End file.
